Loves Vocabulary

Essay by Diane Ackerman

Love is the great intangible. In our nightmares, we can create beasts out of pure emotion. Hate stalks the streets
with dripping fangs, fear flies down narrow alleyways on leather wings, and jealousy spins sticky webs across the sky. In
daydreams, we can maneuver with poise, foiling an opponent, scoring high on fields of glory while crowds cheer, cutting
fast to the heart of an adventure. But what dream state is love? Frantic and serene, vigilant and calm, wrung-out and
fortified, explosive and sedatelove commands a vast army of moods. Hoping for victory, limping from the latest
skirmish, lovers enter the arena once again. Sitting still, we are as daring as gladiators.

When I set a glass prism on a windowsill and allow the sun to flood through it, a spectrum of colors dances on
the floor. What we call white is a rainbow of colored rays packed into a small space. The prism sets them free. Love is
the white light of emotion. It includes many feelings which, out of laziness and confusion, we crowd into one simple
word. Art is the prism that sets them free, then follows the gyrations of one or a few. When art separates this thick
tangle of feelings, love bares its bones. But it cannot be measured or mapped. Everyone admits that love is wonderful
and necessary, yet no one can agree on what it is. I once heard a sportscaster say of a basketball player, He does all the
intangibles. Just watch him do his dance. As lofty as the idea of love can be, no image is too profane to help explain it.
Years ago, I fell in love with someone who was both a sport and a pastime. At the end, he made fade-away jump shots in
my life. But, for a while, love did all the intangibles. It lets us do our finest dance.

Love. What a small word we use for an idea so immense and powerful it has altered the flow of history, calmed
monsters, kindled works of art, cheered the forlorn, turned tough guys to mush, consoled the enslaved, driven strong
women mad, glorified the humble, fueled national scandals, bankrupted robber barons, and made mincemeat of kings.
How can loves spaciousness be conveyed in the narrow confines of one syllable? If we search for the source of the
word, we find a history vague and confusing, stretching back to the Sanskrit lubhyati (he desires). Im sure the
etymology rambles back much farther than that, to a one-syllable word heavy as a heartbeat. Love is an ancient
delirium, a desire older than civilization, with taproots stretching deep into dark and mysterious days.

We use the word love in such a sloppy way that it can mean almost nothing or absolutely everything. It is the
first conjugation students of Latin learn. It is a universally understood motive for crime. Ah, he was in love, we sigh,
well, that explains it. In fact, in some European and South American countries, even murder is forgivable if it was a
crime of passion. Love, like truth, is the unassailable defense. Whoever first said love makes the world go round (it
was an anonymous Frenchman) probably was not thinking about celestial mechanics, but the way love seeps into the
machinery of life to keep generation after generation in motion. We think of love as a positive force that somehow
ennobles the one feeling it. When a friend confesses that hes in love, we congratulate him.

In folk stories, unsuspecting lads and lasses ingest a love potion and quickly lose their hearts. As with all
intoxicants, love comes in many guises and strengths. It has a mixed bouquet, and may include some piquant
ingredients. Ones taste in love will have a lot to do with ones culture, upbringing, generation, religion, era, gender, and
so on. Ironically, although we sometimes think of it as the ultimate Oneness, love isnt monotone or uniform. Like a batik
created from many emotional colors, it is a fabric whose pattern and brightness may vary. What is my goddaughter to
think when she hears her mother say: I love Ben & Jerrys Cherry Garcia ice cream; I really loved my high school
boyfriend; Dont you just love this sweater? Id love to go to the lake for a week this summer; Mommy loves you.
Since all we have is one word, we talk about love in increments or unwieldy ratios. How much do you love me? a child
asks. Because the parent cant answer I (verb that means unconditional parental love) you, she may fling her arms wide,
as if welcoming the sun and sky, stretching her body to its limit, spreading her fingers to encompass all of Creation, and
say: This much! Or: Think of the biggest thing you can imagine. Now double it. I love you a hundred times that much!

When Elizabeth Barrett Browning wrote her famous sonnet How do I love thee? she didnt count the ways
because she had an arithmetical turn of mind, but because English poets have always had to search hard for personal
signals of their love. As a society, we are embarrassed by love. We treat it as if it were an obscenity. We reluctantly
admit to it. Even saying the word makes us stumble and blush. Why should we be ashamed of an emotion so beautiful
and natural? In teaching writing students, Ive sometimes given them the assignment of writing a love poem. Be
precise, be individual, and be descriptive. But dont use any clichs, I caution them, or any curse words. Part of the
reason for this assignment is that it helps them understand how inhibited we are about love. Love is the most important
thing in our lives, a passion for which we would fight or die, and yet were reluctant to linger over its name. Without a
supple vocabulary, we cant even talk or think about it directly. On the other hand, we have many sharp verbs for the
ways in which human beings can hurt one another, dozens of verbs for the subtle gradations of hate. But there are
pitifully few synonyms for love. Our vocabulary of love and lovemaking is so paltry that a poet has to choose among
clichs, profanities, or euphemisms. Fortunately, this has led to some richly imagined works of art. It has inspired poets
to create their own private vocabularies. Mrs. Browning sent her husband a poetic abacus of love, which in a
roundabout way expressed the sum of her feelings. Other lovers have tried to calibrate their love in equally ingenious
ways. In The Flea, John Donne watches a flea suck blood from his arm and his beloveds, and rejoices that their blood
marries in the fleas stomach.

Yes, lovers are most often reduced to comparatives and quantities. Do you love me more than her? we ask.
Will you love me less if I dont do what you say? We are afraid to face love head-on. We think of it as a sort of traffic
accident of the heart. It is an emotion that scares us more than cruelty, more than violence, more than hatred. We allow
ourselves to be foiled by the vagueness of the word. After all, love requires the utmost vulnerability. We equip someone
with freshly sharpened knives; strip naked; then invite him to stand close. What could be scarier?

If you took a woman from ancient Egypt and put her in an automobile factory in Detroit, she would be
understandably disoriented. Everything would be new, especially her ability to stroke the wall and make light flood the
room, touch the wall elsewhere and fill the room with summers warm breezes or winters blast. Shed be astonished by
telephones, computers, fashions, language, and customs. But if she saw a man and woman stealing a kiss in a quiet
corner, she would smile. People everywhere and everywhen understand the phenomenon of love, just as they
understand the appeal of music, finding it deeply meaningful even if they cannot explain exactly what that meaning is,
or why they respond viscerally to one composer and not another. Our Egyptian woman, who prefers the birdlike
twittering of a sistrum, and a twentieth-century man, who prefers the clashing jaws of heavy metal, share a passion for
music that both would understand. So it is with love. Values, customs, and protocols may vary from ancient days to the
present, but not the majesty of love. People are unique in the way they walk, dress, and gesture, yet were able to look
at two peopleone wearing a business suit, the other a sarongand recognize that both of them are clothed. Love also
has many fashions, some bizarre and (to our taste) shocking, others more familiar, but all are part of a phantasmagoria
we know. In the Serengeti of the heart, time and nation are irrelevant. On that plain, all fires are the same fire.

Remember the feeling of an elevator falling in your chest when you said good-bye to a loved one? Parting is
more than sweet sorrow, it pulls you apart when you are glued together. It feels like hunger pains, and we use the same
word, pang. Perhaps this is why Cupid is depicted with a quiver of arrows, because at times love feels like being pierced
in the chest. It is a wholesome violence. Common as child birth, love seems rare nonetheless, always catches one by
surprise, and cannot be taught. Each child rediscovers it, each couple redefines it, each parent reinvents it. People
search for love as if it were a city lost beneath the desert dunes, where pleasure is the law, the streets are lined with
brocade cushions, and the sun never sets.

If its so obvious and popular, then what is love? I began researching this book because I had many questions,
not because I knew at the outset what answers I might find. Like most people, I believed what I had been told: that the
idea of love was invented by the Greeks, and romantic love began in the Middle Ages. I know now how misguided such
hearsay is. We can find romantic love in the earliest writings of our kind. Much of the vocabulary of love, and the
imagery lovers use, has not changed for thousands of years. Why do the same images come to mind when people
describe their romantic feelings? Custom, culture, and tastes vary, but not love itself, not the essence of the emotion.